Spirit Healer
by Torilund Archer
Summary: I dreamed this a couple of months ago and felt possessed until I got it down on paper. A one-shot about Fenris and fem!Hawke from Dragon Age 2 - it's an AU about how a Spirit Healer might just be perfect for Fenris, despite his feelings about mages.


**AN:**This is a one-shot short story (AU) about Fenris and fem!Hawke from Dragon Age 2. I woke up in the middle of the night after dreaming this. It was so vivid in my mind, I had to get up and write it out. That was about two months ago. I've recently re-written it and decided to replace my old version (entitled "Healing") with this, while I work on Chapter 10 of WIWUYS.

Just a note: They don't really know each other at first. It's just "he" and "she". As the relationship evolves and their assumptions about each other fall away, they each learn who the other really is. Then their names have meaning. That's when I use them.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read my work! Bioware owns all characters. Just the story idea is mine.

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_SPIRIT HEALER_

"Ugh! You are a **mage**," he sneers.

She corrects him. "I am a healer. I have spent my life studying the art of soothing pain, mending flesh, and restoring function. I would not want this power at all if I couldn't use it to heal."

"You say that now," he says viciously and turns away.

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_THE POSSIBILITY_

She looks into his eyes, admiring the color, wondering if this is the right time. But how can one ever really know the right time for anything?

"I've been thinking." She decides to get straight to the point. "If you could have your markings removed, would you want that?"

His eyebrows float skywards, mouth turning in the other direction.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I lived through the pain once but I will not endure it again."

She knew there would be resistance. She's not put off.

"What if it didn't hurt? Besides, you live with pain every day," she reminds him. "What if I could take that away?"

He growls. "You speak of blood magic."

"No," she says, serious, "It is not blood magic. This is a knowledge that has come to me over time, instinctively, as if it's been there all along just waiting for my vision to come into focus."

Her words reach into the core of him. What if she really could? His stomach lurches.

"No, that is not possible," he says, deflating. "It is a part of who I am, burned not only into my flesh but my soul. I refuse to be experimented on for your own sick curiosity."

She watches his eyes narrow, sees the mistrust, but she does not give up.

"I cannot hurt you with this magic." she says with certainty. "If it fails, then you will feel nothing and nothing will change. You really wouldn't want to be rid of your markings? to be free?"

He glares at her. "I **am**free," he declares angrily.

She leans her head to one side. "Are you?"

He should be offended but instead he finds this gesture somewhat charming. He mutters in that Tevinter language he sometimes uses when he is angry or frustrated.

"Take your time," she says.

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_FIRST TIME_

It is near sunset. They have returned from a fruitful day of coin gathering and gone their separate ways to do personal tasks. Normally he would await her at the hanged man. But, he knows she likes to bathe before dinner. She will be at home now. There is a thought that has been growing in him, clawing at him. He needs to see her in private.

At her estate, he lets himself in. Her dwarven servant scurries into the entry room at the sound of the front door opening and closing. He waves to the dwarf who, on reflex, waves back without thinking.

"She is expecting me," he says, wondering if it is true. She seems to understand him so well despite the different worlds they come from. Despite the fact that he has known her less than a month.

He feels the dwarf watching his back anxiously as he ascends her stairway. At her chamber door he knocks but doesn't wait. He just walks in, manners be damned. If he catches her in a state of undress, more's the better. She should know that he is no longer some simpering slave to be trifled with. She should fear him.

She is in her bath. She looks up with mild irritation, expecting to see her mother or perhaps the dwarven servant but, upon seeing _him_, her expression turns to surprise. She watches silently as he walks toward her. So graceful and sure.

He squats next to the tub and dangles his fingers in the water, fixing his eyes upon her.

She waits patiently under the glare of those green, green eyes.

Her lips are slightly parted. The vein at her throat pulses rapidly. Slowly, he turns up his palm, inviting her touch.

"Do it," he says.

A faint smile blooms on her face. She places a hand over his and closes her eyes. It takes a moment. It's subtle. It washes through him, cool and inviting. He withdraws his hand. She opens her eyes, questioning him.

"We're done for today," he answers, gruffly. He leaves before she can see the shaking of his fingers.

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_SECOND TIME_

It has been some days. The markings are almost imperceptibly thinner but he can feel that they _are thinner_. He doesn't understand how. He returns to her estate and makes his request.

She asks him to lie on the floor of her room, in front of the fire. Her hands come to rest, one in his silken, silvery hair and one over his heart.

He inhales softly but sharply when he feels the subtle flow of her magic.

She does not move her hands. "How do you feel? Are you alright?"

"Yes," he says. _I am better than alright._ A puzzled and pained expression passes across his face until he finds a way to describe it. "Your touch... it lightens me. I had no idea I felt heavy."

"I understand."

They remain in silence for a time then she says, "That's all for today. Let's wait a while and see how you are before we do it again, okay?"

He feels in his bones that this woman, this _mage_ will never try to harm him but the feeling is so discordant with everything he knows about magic. _It will change her._ The realization saddens him much more than he would have expected. _I must be wary _he thinks to himself.

He sees that she has a single freckle under her left eye and one on her chin.

"Okay," he says.

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_THIRD TIME_

He is lying on her floor again. There is a fire in the hearth. He watches the flickering light from it form shapes on her ceiling.

She sits at his feet, cradling his ankles in her soft hands.

He cannot help but to remember how he used to kneel at the feet of his master Danarius ...like a dog. Memories of his life as a slave suddenly overwhelm him. He feels terrible pain, humiliation, rage. It is like acid on his skin, a blade through his heart. Why can he not think of something else? The lessons, the beatings, the constant reminders that he was not a man, only property to be used and discarded.

He breathes slowly in and out, willing himself to remain calm but the memories tear at him, dance lewdly before him.

He tries to focus on her touch, on the gentleness that emanates from her. She is everything that his master is not. This mage does not demand his obedience or demean him cruelly at every turn. She does not collar and chain him or parade him in front of her associates like a prize beast. She does not lash him until he cannot stand when she is angry or abuse his body in any other way.

He tenses, shudders and breathes in and out.

No, she is patient with him. Kind. Her touch is a gateway to serenity, not an infliction of torment.

He is aware of a change happening throughout his body. A sensation like cool breeze has been subtle up to this point but now it grows stronger. It phases from cool to warm and rises to the surface. He feels a tingling in his skin. It becomes warmer still, enveloping him in soothing heat. Then it is gone and all the demonic memories with it.

He breathes.

He can still remember all of these things but ...they do not torture him. They are in the past. Distant. Powerless. He feels her hands leave him, hears her voice ending the session. She sounds tired. He comes to a sitting position. She remains where she is.

"How are you?" she asks.

He looks at his arms. The markings are definitely narrower.

"I am fine." Normally this is his way of saying I am in control of myself but this time when he speaks the words there is a deeper meaning.

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_-inbetween-_

He sleeps soundly that night. When morning light peeks through the cracks in the ceiling, he awakes with a new sensation. He names it 'peace'.

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_FOURTH TIME_

"We are done for today," she says.

He sits up, feeling different. It is like having the warmth of the sun on his face after being cold and wet for a long time.

"How are you doing this?" he asks her. His eyes are wide, searching.

She seems to shrink as she says, "I don't know, I just do it."

Her eyes plead with him to trust her but he just looks at her, waiting for an answer he can believe. His gaze is penetrating.

She sighs. "I was helping at Anders' clinic one afternoon and it just ...came to me."

His teeth clench. Anders. The mistrust surges in him, bringing a sour taste to his mouth. "Are you certain there is no dark magic involved in this? If you do not know where this ability came from, you cannot know for sure."

She wavers. Surrenders. Covers her face with her hands.

He hears her muffled voice say, "Okay. Okay. I do know where it comes from."

He watches her warily.

She looks up, dropping her hands onto her lap and sighs deeply. "It comes from me. I am giving you..."

"What?" His chest tightens. He is suddenly even more uncomfortable.

"What do you feel when I touch you?" she asks.

He only has to think for a second. "Peace," he answers simply.

"Yes, that is what I feel too." She approves of this answer but there is more. "The power comes from my complete acceptance of who you are. It is unconditional love. When I let it pass through me into you, I think your body is free to move back towards its natural state, to expel all the darkness that has been imposed upon you."

He stares at her in muted awe. At her admission. At the fact that love, not anger or greed feeds her.

She sighs again. "Of course, it's going to take time."

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_-inbetween-_

He has accompanied her to the market for supplies. His idea. While she browses through sundry items, he stares at the stones in the street, making patterns out of random shapes. There is a goat. And a sword. And a girl's face.

Suddenly, he remembers playing with his sister. He has a sister. Her hair is red, messy. She wears a light colored dress. They sit in the dirt grabbing fist fulls of earth then they let it fall through their little fingers and laugh. The scene plays out too quickly. As sensations of wind and sand and clothing and laughter fade ...the images linger in his mind.

_They __**linger**__._

He turns and hides his face as the joy of this fills his eyes.

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_FIFTH TIME_

He has missed this. There were so many demands on her time, for her attention. It has been too long.

Her cool hands rest on his body. The peace flows through him. His eyes are open in another waking dream. No, a memory. As he stares at the white-washed ceiling, he can call up a whole host of recovered memories. He can feel the joy, the sadness, the pride, the guilt or whatever emotion each one conjures in him. He moves through them one by one. He feels the grass beneath his feet and the rain on his skin. He is in both places at once, here and there. He knows that these memories will not diminish. They will be available to him whenever he wants them. He has many things to consider. And some things to atone for.

His markings are half as thick as they used to be.

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_-inbetween-_

He waits for her outside the door to her estate, watching the night fade away. It seems right to be here. He could not sleep and the nearer he is to her, the more peaceful he feels.

He listens carefully, imagining that he can hear her sleeping breath. A new color dawns across the sky.

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_SIXTH TIME_

They sit cross legged, facing each other in front of the crackling fire. His palms face upwards. Her fingers curl loosely around his. She closes her eyes to concentrate. He focuses on breathing in and out. He goes through his catalogue of memories, starting as early as he can remember all the way up to the present. There are gaps and much of it is not pleasant but ...it is his life. When he is done, he opens his eyes.

The fire is died out, nothing but large bits of blackened wood and faintly glowing embers. How much time has passed? How was he not aware of it passing? She has not moved either. Her eyes are still closed. He tightens his grip, gently squeezing her fingers.

"Hawke."

She opens her eyes slowly and looks at him. Then she seems to remember where she is and looks around.

"What happened?" she asks. "It's so dark."

"It's late," he answers.

They stand and she lights the two wall-mounted lamps. As the rooms brightens she hears a strange sound. She turns.

"Fenris, your markings!" she cries.

He is holding out his arms, spreading his fingers, inspecting his tops of his feet. They look at each other in surprise. This is not what she thought would happen. The patterns are not where they were. These lines are new, as if written in a different language by a different hand.

"What is this?" he demands.

"I... don't know!" She reaches out to touch the patterns on his face, his neck, his arm. His skin feels smooth and warm. "How do you feel?"

He thinks. "I do not know."

"Time will tell," she says. Her heart is pounding in her chest. "You should go home and rest."

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_-inbetween-_

The lyrium no longer burns, never rages savagely through his flesh. These altered markings seem to emerge gracefully from within. When he calls upon them, the fire they release is cool like her hands. And powerful, as if a source of never-ending strength. It is exhilarating.

He also no longer broods ...as much. Yesterday, he patted a passing child on the head. Isabela's jaw nearly fell onto her chest.

Anders has taken up the old brooding mantle, wearing it everywhere.

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_EPILOGUE_

He follows her up the stairs to her chamber as she regales him with Varric's latest tall tale.

"You can now sprout wings apparently." She laughs. "Don't be surprised if the local children start asking you about them."

She closes the door behind them and gestures to their traditional spot. "Shall we continue?"

The room is too quiet in the absence of a response from the elf. He stands, gazing at her. A grin toys with the corners of his mouth.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

He moves closer to her and takes her hands.

She forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He can see the hope in her eyes. "No, nothing is wrong. But I no longer wish to be other than what I have become."

He pulls her in close, placing her hands behind his head and sliding his own hands down her arms, along her sleek sides to her waist where he rests them, possessively clutching at the fabric of her robes. He leans in to inhale the fragrance of her hair and feels her body melt against him.

"Fenris..."

"Hawke."

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_fin_


End file.
